How To Excavate A Secret
by Autaria
Summary: Kid!vengers. Tony is kidnapped following his discovery of being one of the few who are able to understand the language on a mysterious Egyptian stone slab, which reveals the location of the destructive Aether. While in captivity, he meets several others who have the same unique ability as he does. Whump in later chapters. Some references to Thor: TDW. Eventual Stony. Major AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Just trying out something. Major AU, though. Major Kidvengers, too.

* * *

"I am the fourteen-year old child prodigy son of multi-billionaire Howard Stark, with an intelligence quotient that rivals Albert Einstein, who is currently in the process of getting accepted into the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, who dismantled a whole Volkswagen vehicle at the age of four, admittedly with the help of my father but I did most of the work, who –"

"No, Tony, you don't get to pull the I'm-Too-Intelligent-For-This-Shit card today," Rhodey interrupted his best friend's tirade, running a hand through his hair and sighing softly, completely familiar with the small speech that Tony was currently giving. "You are going to follow us to the museum for a short field trip like all kids do, or I swear we're going to drag you through those automatic glass double doors, and I don't care who your father is."

"But, Rhodey," Tony whined, folding his arms and pouting. "Field trips are boring." He dragged the last word out. "They're for normal kids! You know, kids with an IQ of less than a hundred, who've never skipped a grade before in their lives, who still eat from packed lunches that their moms made."

"Just because you're intelligent doesn't mean you get to insult all the other kids, Tony."

"Excuse me?"

"Just because you're _extremely _intelligent for someone your age," Rhodey corrected with a roll of his eyes, "does not mean you are excused from field trips. Come on, Tony. This is just a visit to the museum for less than three hours. I'm sure you can handle that! It will be fun, I'm sure of it. Stop it with the puppy eyes, Tony, you know that only works on Phil. It will be good for you to finally be out for a change instead of being cooped up at home, working on your robot. Which, if I may add, only comprises of a motor and a metal hand."

"His name is Dummy, idiot," Tony stuck his tongue out. "And I've got the schematics for another one, who's going to be called Butterfingers. And, they do not just 'comprise of a motor and a metal hand', they are fully capable of thought patterns and interpreting situations. They're just, you know, not sentient, because they can't express themselves, due to the lack of parts."

"Whatever. That is besides the point, Tony," Rhodey sighed again, his patience beginning to wear thin. "I do not care what you say, you are coming with us on this field trip, and that's that. Besides, we're already at the museum," he gestured to the large marble building they were arguing in front of, complete with two orange marble lion statues flanking the double doors. "Since we're here, we're going to make the best of what we have. It's not like this is going to be dangerous or anything."

"Museums are dangerous," Tony deadpanned with a subtle eyebrow raise. "Didn't you read the papers? My dad told me that just between the last two months, four kids went missing."

"That makes no sense, Tony."

"Three of those kids went missing after they visited the museum. This museum, in particular." Tony gestured to the wide double doors. "Three kids is a lot, you know, they're probably going to make a study of the number of kids who mysteriously vanish after visiting a museum. I refuse to be a statistic on that chart." It was a weak argument at best, but at this point Tony was grasping at straws.

"Tony, stop being ridiculous." Rhodey rolled his eyes. "I read that article. And they did not go missing while in the museum. It's a coincidence. Maybe they wandered off or something. And besides, the article you read was in a freaking _tabloid, _not in the papers. Nobody reads those things and believes them. They post dumb things in there, you know, things about celebrities and stuff. Look, I promise we'll be here to take care of you. Pep, Phil, and I. Your bodyguards for the day. Nothing's going to happen to you, cross my heart and hope to die."

He cut in when it looked like Tony was about to interrupt him. "Don't make me get Pepper. She's wearing her heels today."

Tony paled, and Rhodey smirked in triumph, turning his gaze to check if the remnants of their school group had left, or if they were still waiting for the other kids who had yet to return from their toilet break. "We're going in soon. It's just less than three hours, Tony. We'll just be in there, following some tour guide around, looking at ancient Egyptian or Incan artifacts and stuff – and then we'll be out before you know it, and then we can go grab Chinese once we're dismissed and you can go home and rot there for the rest of the week, hanging out with Buttertoes."

"Butterfingers. He's not completed yet, by the way."

"Whatever. Just humor me, okay? It's just for the experience. I'll let you order whatever you want on the menu tonight, even if it's a quintuple-shot espresso."

"They serve coffee at the Chinese place?" Tony's pout was momentarily wiped off his face, both his eyebrows raised.

"They make it on request. I didn't tell you because I know you'll order it whenever you get the chance to." Rhodey took the opportunity to grab Tony's bony wrist and lead him in a manner most unceremonious to the front of the school line, where both Phil and Pepper were back from their respective toilet breaks, waiting for them to show up. "No running away till the tour has ended, Tony, otherwise I'll follow up on my threat and get Pep to track you down. You know I am fully capable of that."

"Whatever," Tony rolled his eyes, folding his arms, still pouting as their teacher herded them into two distinct lines and began the headcount for the number of children present. "I still say this is a stupid idea, Rhodey."

* * *

It had been two hours and forty-five minutes, and here they were still listening to that dull tour guide drone on and on about the Chinese emperors, specifically about a particular Qin Shihuang, whoever that was, something about building the Great Wall of China, blah blah, many people died, yadda yadda yadda, bodies were tossed in the Great Wall while it was being built. And then something about burning all books in China, too. Tony thought that was stupid – what a waste of good books, he told Rhodey – and received a lecture from his best friend about how dictators didn't want anybody (particularly people with academic backgrounds) interfering with their plans. Again, totally boring. None of this was going to be useful in the future to Tony Stark.

He'd been attempting for the past nearly three hours to sleep while standing up, although that failed miserably, and every time he closed his eyes he got an elbow in the ribs from Pepper – which hurt, a lot – and every time he made faces behind the tour guide's back he got a foot in the rear end from Phil. They'd moved from exhibit to exhibit – and if he was correct, they'd visited about five exhibition halls – and nothing had managed to pique his interest, not even in the slightest. From Nazi Germany to Tsarist Russia to some weirdo called Chandragupta Maurya to the Sacred Valley of the Incas to Chinese history – all boring. Insipid. Dull. Drab. Mundane. Unimaginative. Uninteresting. Stodgy. Tony had a variety of words for Rhodey to pick to describe this 'field trip'.

"It is fascinating," Pepper had tried to interest him in the museum trip. "Isn't it marvelous how much humans have progressed over the years?"

"It will be fun, he said," Tony attempted to mimic Rhodey's tone, folding his arms and posing like how his best friend would usually stand. "I'm sure of it, he said. Someone remind me to kick Rhodey off the 'people I can trust' list."

"It has been fun," Phil rolled his eyes, laying a firm hand on Tony's shoulder and dragging him along to the next artifact on exhibit as their little school group moved along. "It's just that you have not exactly been the epitome of cooperative, Stark. If you would be a little more appreciative of these ancient artifacts, I am sure you'd find it as fun as the next guy does –"

"Oh, really." Tony leaned over and nudged the boy beside Phil, one of their schoolmates who'd opted to follow the school field trip. "Hey, Jeremy – that's your name, right? – you having fun on this absolutely substandard excuse of a field trip?"

"I was," the boy replied smoothly, "until you talked to me. Also, my name's Peter."

Phil folded his arms and raised an eyebrow at Tony, cocking his head slightly and with a smug grin plastered on his face – the one he knew that always annoyed his friend. "What did I tell you, Tony? Stop being a damn jackass about the whole thing and shut up and actually _listen _to the nice tour guide for once. If you try to like it, I'm pretty much certain you'll end up enjoying yourself. Now, be a good boy and promise me that you won't argue with the tour guide for the whole of the last exhibition hall we're going to, and that you won't try to fall asleep on your legs. Or I'll call Pepper."

"You suck," Tony muttered under his breath, but conceded defeat, and skulked off after the disappearing tour group, Phil walking beside him to make sure that he stuck to his promises.

"I'm pretty sure you'll enjoy the last one," Phil tried to placate his friend. "It's something about Egypt, and you know how _everyone _finds Egypt interesting, what with all the mummies and the sun gods and Cleopatra and all the pyramids and tombs with all their funky booby traps for the tomb raiders."

"We'll see," Tony grunted, since he really didn't want Pepper breathing down his neck about enjoying the museum visit and making sure that he behaved himself. Egypt did sound like fun, though. He'd always been, as a kid, fascinated about how the Egyptians managed to find a clever way to preserve their dead, along with the gory parts, like something about sucking the brains of the dead Pharaohs out through their noses. Totally gross, maybe, but it would be a fun fact to share with Rhodey once they got to the exhibit; he would totally love to see Rhodey squirm with the willies. Despite his seemingly tough exterior, Rhodey _hated _gory things. (Like the time Rhodey passed out after they had watched Saw II together.)

The Egyptian exhibition hall was, as Tony predicted to himself three seconds before their tour group actually entered the hall, milling with visitors, both local and from overseas. Phil was right, Egyptian history was definitely the most interesting out of all the other boring stuff they'd seen so far. The tour guide (who had calmed down noticeably when Phil had restrained Tony from arguing with her any further, like how the two debated in the Chinese exhibition hall when Tony insisted that the museum tours department had gotten the chronological order of the crowning of one of the princes of China wrong – and the department did get it incorrect, of course, because when was Anthony Edward Stark ever wrong) had them crowded around a large glass case, with a body wrapped neatly in linen bandages enclosed within.

As she droned on and on about the process of mummification – which Tony knew intimately, thank you very much – his eyes wandered around the hall, still looking at the other artifacts placed on exhibit. Some emerald amulets, two papyruses, an odd-looking statue of a Pharaoh – maybe Tutankhamen. How utterly predictable. Tony rolled his eyes, supporting his head with his left hand, while his elbow rested on Phil's shoulder, leaning against his smaller friend.

"Don't you find it interesting at all?" Rhodey asked with a raised eyebrow as he leaned over, closer to Tony so that nobody could hear them.

"I admit this is more interesting than the other exhibits," Tony murmured, "nevertheless when I say 'more interesting' I am comparing it with other exhibits. I find them all dull. Some are just, you know, less dull than the others, just slightly. Like this one."

Rhodey sighed, rolling his eyes again, shifting his weight to one foot. Tony would _never _find history interesting. Tony never found anything interesting, unless it was related to mechanics and technology. Oh, and food. Tony found food interesting. Rhodey would guess that if marriage to food were legal, Tony would already be married to Shawarma. That guy could eat Shawarma for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

"Moving on," the tour guide gestured to the next artifact, a stone slab of some sort, with a wave of her hand and a fake smile that told Tony that she really hated her job and didn't want to be here introducing a bunch of poorly-disciplined kids to priceless ancient findings, "I am sure all of you will find this one interesting. I present to you our latest artifact – flown in all the way from Egypt just two months ago. This stone slab was discovered in a previously unmarked pyramid, buried underground, hidden by layers of sand and grit. This is the only artifact that managed to leave the hidden pyramid, because the moment it was removed from its stand, the walls of the pyramid mysteriously began to crumble. The team of Egyptologists had no choice but to run and take this stone slab with them. The rest of the artifacts they had seen in the hidden pyramid were buried in the sand following the collapse of the pyramid. As I am speaking these very words, an excavating team is currently digging around the area where the hidden pyramid was said to have been, trying to excavate any of the other artifacts that survived the pyramid's collapse."

"How mysterious indeed," Tony deadpanned to Rhodey, who was craning his neck for a better view of the stone slab, since the both of them were standing right at the back of the school group clustered around the artifact and therefore could not catch a single glimpse of the slab. "This pyramid was built several thousand years ago, I don't see anything mysterious about its poor structural integrity."

"Can it, Tony, I wanna hear what she's saying," Rhodey glared at his best friend, still trying to get a good view of the stone.

"As all of you can see," the tour guide began –

"Not all of us can," Rhodey sighed in defeat, throwing up his hands.

"The slab has some extremely interesting words carved in it," the tour guide continued. "Well – they're not really words. Just symbols to us, at least. The funny thing is, none of the existing languages on this planet match up to the language engraved on this stone slab. Perhaps it's a pattern of some sort, no one really knows. Our hired team of Egyptologists have been trying to decipher the code engraved on it ever since it's been discovered – it doesn't even match up to the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, much less any language used by other ancient civilizations."

"I bet you could decipher that code," Rhodey remarked to Tony with a raised eyebrow. "If, you know, you actually could be bothered to take the time off your supposedly busy schedule to go figure it out."

"Now why would I ever waste my precious time on trivial things like these?" Tony replied nonchalantly, with a wave of his hand. "Whatever the message is, I bet it's probably not important. Maybe a secret recipe for Egyptian stew, or something. Maybe this Pharaoh liked to cook. Don't look at me like that, Rhodey, it's a perfectly legitimate hypothesis!"

"I have one more artifact to show you before the tour is concluded," the tour guide said, and she sounded relived that she was finally going to get this bunch of monkeys out of her hands. "This way, please -"

"Hurry, Tony, I want to see the stone thingy," Rhodey had his best friend's arm in a vice-grip and was pulling Tony to the front of the fast-dissipating group, stopping just in front of the glass casing that protected the ancient stone slab from the hands of curious children and visitors alike.

It wasn't anything spectacular, Tony noticed. Just an old block of stone, about the size of an A4 sheet of paper, the width about four inches or so. Greyish-black, with little flecks of white powder on practically every surface. A few intricate carvings into the rock, just like what the tour guide had said. Tony didn't even bother to glance at the artifact, despite his growing interest, while Rhodey was practically examining every visible surface of the slab, changing positions every five seconds. "Tony, you need to take a look at this," he insisted, once his search had got him to the surface of the stone where the text was clearly visible. "This is remarkable."

"Not interested," Tony kept his eyes on their school group, which were crowded around another glass display case twenty meters from where the two were still standing.

"No, Tony, you really have to take a look at this," Rhodey breathed. "It's remarkable."

"I doubt it actually is," Tony huffed, finally giving in to temptation and craning his neck a little to get a good view of the symbols. "What –"

The symbols were definitely odd, now that he had a good view of them. One was comprised of a few squiggly lines and a circle. Another had a bird – a flamingo, his subconscious whispered to him – dancing in the middle of a square. And another looked suspiciously like a modern-day submarine, stranded on an island with a single palm tree. Tony frowned, marveling at how intricate the carving of the symbols were, taking note of the precision of each cut, not caring that Rhodey had gone silent and was now staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Huh," he murmured, shoving his hands into his pockets. Something niggling at the back of his mind told him that he'd seen these patterns somewhere, although the still-coherent part of his brain, the part associated with memory, told him that he had never actually seen anything like this in his whole life. Most of these symbols – if not all of them – looked incredibly familiar. They sent a spark down his spine whenever he examined them closely. Moving his head sideways slightly, although he kept his eyes on the text, Tony exhaled and continued examining the carvings, not knowing that his breathing rate had increased and he was now beginning to sweat. _How can it be that I am experiencing deja vu when looking at these oddities?_

"You're thinking of decoding this, right?" Rhodey shot him a grin, although it wasn't returned. "I knew it. I knew you'd find something that would capture your attention in this place. Pity the museum doesn't allow photography, though, we could totally snap a picture of this and have it sent to your computer in seconds –"

"Hush, I'm thinking," Tony scolded, ignoring the annoying smirk on his best friend's face, which was growing bigger and bigger. Rearranging his arms so he had his right knuckle pressed to his mouth while his left arm was tucked under his right elbow, his left hand clenched into a fist, pressing against his body, Tony did not move for the next five minutes. _The symbol with the irregular dodecagon and the triangle with the fish within represents the word 'evil'. _Tony blinked. Wait, how did he know that? _And the one with the three-sided pyramid and the wheel represents the word 'buried'._

His mind was starting to sort and filter out this new information, as if he was just suddenly remembering something he had no intention of remembering. As if the answers were memories he had kept locked away in his mind for years, never taking them out to look through. As if he'd been told what these strange symbols meant a long time ago, and hadn't remembered it till this very moment. _Which isn't possible. I have absolutely no recollection of seeing these._

In less than five minutes, his mind had already managed to decode the message – well, more or less so – and had pieced the bits of the puzzle together. _The Aether is buried underground, carefully concealed from the likes of mankind. Those who seek its destructive power are doing so for greedy, evil means. As such, those able to comprehend this language must never reveal the location of this entity. _And below, the precise area of which this supposed _entity _was buried in. Three areas, as a matter of fact. Tony tilted his head again. One was in the walls of the seventeenth underground level of the hidden pyramid – now lost to all mankind, what a pity – another was buried several thousand meters below the surface, somewhere in the North Pole, and the last was buried right in the hadopelagic zone in the ocean (beneath several tonnes of rock, Tony supposed.) Whoever would want this apparently evil _Aether _would have to secure trillions of dollars worth of drilling and excavating equipment, built precisely so that it would withstand extremely high pressures. And they would definitely need a high-pressure submarine that would get them to the bottom of the ocean. Another few millions of dollars used. Whoever had gone to such lengths to bury the Aether had to know that the Aether was definitely powerful and dangerous, indeed.

Tony raised an eyebrow. It was highly likely that this was all a ruse by the ancient Egyptians. Although he _did _understand the text. Or perhaps that was his genius, playing tricks on his conscious. Was it even possible for the extremely primitive ancient Egyptians to go right to the very bottom of the dark ocean to bury this Aether? And what in the world was an Aether? An element of some sort, Tony theorized.

"Hey, Rhodey. You understand any of this?" Tony jabbed a finger to the slab.

"You kidding me?" Rhodey looked incredulous. "Of course not. They're just weird glyphs." He bent down to take a closer look. "I see triangles and circles, and some squares." He pointed to the symbol that had the submarine stranded in the one-palm tree island. "That one's a triangle, right?"

"Ha ha ha," Tony rolled his eyes. "Good try, Rhodey. We both know you can't do sarcasm."

Rhodey frowned. "I wasn't...uh, being sarcastic, Tony. It's a triangle." He looked deadly serious, and Tony almost believed him. "Are you blind? Look, it has three sides. I'm pointing to it right now! Yes, that one! The third row, second from the left. One, two, three sides. It's a triangle, Tony. Quit screwing with me."

Now Tony was speechless. Rhodey was calling _him _blind? James Rhodes was the one who clearly couldn't see that it was _not _a freaking triangle. "Rhodey, it's an ancient rendition of a modern-day sub, which has beached onto an island with a single palm tree. Don't you see that?"

Rhodey looked utterly unconvinced. "Uh huh. Sure, Tony, whatever you want. I thought you were topping the glass in Math. Doesn't that mean you should have a very good grasp on the concept of geometry?" He sighed at Tony's expression. "We're looking at the same glyph, how is it possible that we see different things? And let's face it, the possibility of the Egyptians even accurately predicting what a modern submarine looks like is non-existent."

"Fucking hell, I'm not screwing with you this time, Rhodey," Tony sucked in a shaky breath. "I am telling you what I see now, and I am seeing a submarine."

Rhodey paused. Tony was using his serious tone – which he hardly ever used, but when he did, he was definitely not joking about the matter at hand. "Whatever. Maybe you're just tired, and are seeing things differently. Or maybe it's me." He looked up. "We should rejoin our group. They're already leaving. Come on, the museum's closing, soon." The security guards were already locking the glass doors in the exhibition hall and the visitors were already starting to leave.

"Wait," Tony murmured, studying the text once more. "There's fifteen more minutes till the museum really closes, anyway. You go ahead, Rhodey. Tell them I've already gone home, that you saw me waiting at the bus stop and that you witnessed me boarding the bus. Something like that, so Miss Carter will believe I've gone home safely. I want to...uh, look at this a little while more."

"And you said you wouldn't find anything on this trip interesting," Rhodey grunted. "All right, all right. Will you still be joining us for Chinese tonight?"

Tony chewed on his lip. He was really hungry – when was the last time he'd eaten? Yesterday? Two days ago? - yet this _Aether _had already taken full control of his attention, and he was going to find out what it was. Till he had the answers, he wouldn't stop, because a Stark did not give up when he was looking for answers. "I think not. I'll see you guys another time. I want to spend the next week or so building Butterfingers."

"Okay." Rhodey rolled his eyes, knowing that he wouldn't get to argue with his friend. "See you around, Tony."

"Mmhmm," Tony hummed, not even registering when Rhodey turned on his heel and left, much less noticing that the hall was completely devoid of any other visitors.

_Let's piece the facts together. _Tony calmed himself, closing his eyes. _I can read the warning on this stone slab, but Rhodey cannot understand it. He believes he sees a triangle when what I clearly see is a sub. Nobody else can understand this code save for myself. I am clearly not hallucinating, and my subconscious is sure – positively certain – that I can understand this language. This is like something out of those B-rated horror movies. I can see things that aren't there. Fuck, maybe I have watched too many shows. Should stop letting Pep choose the movies from now on._

When he opened his eyes again, nope, the weird symbols hadn't changed at all, still there, engraved carefully on the surface of the stone. _Am I dreaming?_

_And the message on this stone is quite clear, _Tony continued thinking. _Does it imply that there are only a select few who can read this message? And it clearly wants me to not reveal the whereabouts of this Aether. And whatever this Aether is, it has great powers and, apparently can be used for massive destruction and chaos. I find myself suddenly questioning the existence of science. How do you even pronounce the word 'Aether', anyway? Ay-ther? Eh-ther?_

Groaning, burying his head in his hands, he wiped at his eyes and continued staring at the artifact, his mind now blocking everything around him. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this. He'd never not been able to comprehend things before, much less something that came from the primitive society of Egyptians, and he was definitely not going to give up now till he figured everything out. Perhaps this was some sort of a trick? Unlikely. That certainly wouldn't explain anything about the anomaly he'd just witnessed.

Running a hand through his hair in an exasperated attempt to clear his mind, Tony was coherent enough to notice that his hand had come away slick with sweat. Since when did he sweat so much? Wasn't the museum air-conditioned? Now that he had thought of it, it was starting to get unbearably warm in the exhibition hall.

Trying his best to ignore it, Tony wiped his face of sweat with the sleeve of his turtleneck, continuing to focus on the slab. Since when had it gotten so hard to see? Was this _fog _in a freaking museum? Freaking hell, it was in the middle of October. The weather outside was cool and most definitely _not _hot and _not _foggy. And he was getting sleepy, too.

Casting a gaze around him, Tony could clearly see that the hall was filled with fog. _This isn't...I'm hallucinating, right? I must be. _Panicked, now, he began to run in what he knew was the general direction of the exit. He couldn't even fucking see what was in front of his face, oh god, and everything was getting white. And his legs, was he even control of them? It seemed as if they were just running on their own accord. _What's happening to me?_

Tony thought he'd been running for the past five minutes, when he realized that his legs were currently not moving and that he'd collided with something. A glass case. And it had been smashed upon. He must have run into it, and the impact of collision had broken the glass, he deduced tiredly. It was getting harder to see straight now, and oh god his eyes were _burning. _It was weird how the alarm hadn't sounded, though. Weren't museums full of those motion sensors?

His vision was full of white now. The fog – it was fog, right? It didn't smell, so Tony had to assume that it wasn't because the museums were fumigating their halls, although why would museums even fumigate their halls? It was freaking October, it wasn't like there were going to be mosquitoes or anything – was getting everywhere, and he couldn't even see his hand in front of his face, and he was getting _so _sleepy.

"Help," he gurgled, something blocking his throat and preventing his larynx from articulating words properly. Letting his upper body fall to the ground now, he knew that he was – oh, how terribly cliché – fighting a losing battle. His recalcitrant body wouldn't respond _at all_, no matter how much his brain screamed at him. His limbs were numb, and his mouth was open in a silent scream. _Where are the security guards when I need them? They couldn't have left this place already. There's a night patrol guy, there's always a night patrol guy in museums, I need to get his attention –_

"Please," he screamed – or at least tried to, it came out as a whisper instead. "Help. Pep, Rhodey, Phil! Help me!"

_Phone, Stark. Don't get yourself so flustered you can't even remember that you have a fucking phone in your pocket which you can use to call for help. That would be rather embarrassing, now wouldn't it?_

Tony fumbled for his phone, his hand wouldn't fucking _fit _in his jeans pocket, and oh god he was sweating so much, his breathing rate increased drastically. It clattered to the floor, and he groped around, trying to find his _bloody _phone in the stupid fog – oh god, he was so getting his father to sue the museum, who the hell put fog in the museum anyway – and yes, there his phone was. Tony swiped the screen, tapping in his twenty-number password – why the hell did he put so many safeguards – and tapped his call application desperately, and _ohgodhecouldn'tbreathe._

Tapping in Rhodey's number desperately, his arm shaking so badly, he took deep, gasping breaths, no longer in control of the panic that had built up in him. Bashing his thumb against the call button, he took another long breath and waited for Rhodey to answer. _That idiot better pick up my call, or I swear I'll wrangle his skinny neck with my bare hands._

His eyes really stung, now, and his heart was thrumming in his ears, his pulse sky-rocketing. He had no time to think coherently, all he knew was that he felt restricted – did anybody know Tony Stark suffered from claustrophobia – and the monotonous ringing in his ears didn't help. He was _dying, _goddamn it, and Rhodey chose today of all days not to answer his phone. The guy always answered Tony's calls, no matter what the time.

"Hello? Tony?"

Tony couldn't even _move. _The Starkphone slid from his hand, dropping on the floor again, and he couldn't even pick it up. He tried, of course, but his hand wouldn't obey him. It was as if all his muscles had become unresponsive. Perhaps they had gone on strike, from all the late-night binges and all the working till exhaustion. Huh. _It's just like what Phil always said. Karma's a bitch. _And his mouth wouldn't even move, so all he could do was just lie there and let his eyes gaze towards the ceiling – which was hidden from sight by all the fog. The stupid fog. It was finding its way into Tony's throat and nose, because now breathing was getting harder and harder, and his throat felt funny. His buccal cavity felt as if it was filled with cold gas, and his pharynx felt stuffy. Although that was stupid, because technically fog was a gas, and couldn't fill Tony's throat –

His eyes rolled back into his head, and Tony Stark was no longer conscious.

* * *

**A/N: **Please R&R!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Hi guys! Clint and Natasha are introduced in this chapter. Please R&R! I'll update more often now, I'll try to, at least, since it's the hols and all.

* * *

Tony was floating.

He felt incredibly light, as if someone had just removed the effects of gravity with a snap of their fingers or had done something to disrupt the gravitational field strength of the Earth. He was still on Earth, right? It was like he was lying on a bed of fluffy things. Clouds, maybe. He'd been on his father's jet a couple of times before he turned three, and he'd always asked his father if he could open the window for a teensy little while to stretch out his hand and grab a fistful of clouds because _damn _they looked so terribly fluffy. Of course Howard had always said no, otherwise the 'nice airline stewardess' wouldn't give him dessert.

_I must be dreaming, _he thought, because he only saw white. White, billowy clouds. Yeah, maybe he was floating on a mattress of clouds after all. The sensation was so incredibly comfortable, as if he could fly or something. He couldn't move his limbs, though, much less any other part of his body. Not that he wanted to. This was such a wonderful feeling, the way the clouds were enveloping his body, caressing his skin. Just like one of those spas his mother would always bring him to, except this was _much better._

Tony exhaled, content. He never wanted to get up. The last day of school had been yesterday, right? That day when he went to that stupid field trip because Rhodey had persuaded – forced, more like – him to go? Yeah, that meant he had nothing to do for the rest of the day, no classes and none of that school shit, so he could stay up here as long as he pleased, without Pepper or Rhodey or heaven forbid, Phil, calling him at ungodly hours in the morning and telling him to _wake the fuck up because there's school today, in case you forgot Tony, it's seven in the morning._

Where was he anyway? In some day spa, perhaps. _Pep brought me here. As a treat for being such a good boy during the museum trip. _Yeah, that had to be it. He deserved it, anyway, after enduring through the tour guide's terrible droning about some weird Chinese king. Whatever. He couldn't even remember half of what that dull tour guide had been talking about yesterday. He was too busy ribbing Rhodey, and occasionally Phil. And then there had been lots of running, which he didn't like, not one bit, because even though Tony Stark had a hot body (it was the truth), he was rather lazy.

Running?

There had been running.

Running from what? Tony frowned, shaking his head to try and clear the clouds, even though the action hurt his neck. What had he been running from? His mind was obviously telling him that he needed to remember what had happened because it was _important, _but as it was he couldn't even recall the theory of relativity right now.

_Ow, my head._

Blinking rapidly, his vision blurred, and then automatically corrected itself to reveal a series of royal purple foam tiles. They were moving slowly, though, as if he was staring at a conveyor belt – like the one at the sushi place that Pep always brought him to, and how there would be little plates of sushi lined up neatly. Tony could wolf down thirty plates at one go, because the servings were so freaking _tiny._

This didn't look like the sushi place. This didn't look like a spa, either. (What kind of spa would have purple foam tiles? Blue was a much more relaxing colour, duh.) So if he wasn't staring at some sort of conveyor belt, then he was staring at a floor, perhaps. He couldn't really process information properly at this point in time. His head hurt so much, like that time when he'd accidentally downed half a glass of his dad's vodka when he was twelve, thinking that it was white wine. His head had hurt for months to come.

If those foam thingies weren't moving, then _he _was, and that meant that someone was carrying him, the logical part of his brain deduced. Why would anybody be carrying him? He didn't need to be carried, he was fourteen-years old for goodness sake, not a baby any longer. Perhaps it was his dad. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep on his sofa after watching the second season of Sherlock on BBC and yelling at the television screen for John to just _fucking kiss Sherlock already, _and his dad had decided to be kind for once and had carried Tony to his room instead of letting him snooze on the couch.

Nah, that was impossible.

It didn't seem like he was going to find out where he was, anyway, because his head and neck would send him simultaneous bursts of pain to his poor, addled brain every time he tried to turn his head slightly. His mouth wasn't cooperating, either. His tongue felt thick and swollen, and Tony was pretty sure whatever he said was going to come out garbled anyway.

What did he do to deserve such a hangover? He was pretty sure it was a hangover, because nothing else could give him such a migraine. He needed to clear his head. If Tony Stark's brain was not fully functional, then he was in danger, because his genius was his weapon, just like what his parents had told him many times. He'd speculated enough about his whereabouts – now was the time to actually find out where the hell he was and whether or not Rhodey was involved in giving him this horrible headache (because if Rhodey was indeed behind all this, he'd kill him.)

His body jerked, and for a moment Tony thought he was actually going into convulsions, when the logical part of his mind told him that he'd bumped something, and he was actually being dragged on the ground – which explained the swishy sounds near his ears and the feel of friction on his back – and two people were currently gripping his legs and they were moving.

_What?_

Tony paused, and then lifted his neck up slightly. Encouraged when his muscles didn't send twinges of dreadful pain to his central nervous system, he continued easing his neck upward till he could just see two backs, clothed in black, each holding a leg none too gently and walking briskly down the purple corridor.

Something bubbled up in his lungs, and then he had to cough. It started as soft, choking coughs before they progressed to violent hacking, lifting a hand weakly and curling it into a fist to thump at his solar plexus, trying to get whatever was in his system out. His throat and trachea were _burning. _Possibly inflamed, then. He hadn't been smoking, had he? His extensive memory could not provide him with a single moment where he had even touched a cigarette, so, _nope not smoking. Something else then. _Maybe he'd eaten too much junk food – possible explanation for his throat, but not his trachea. Food didn't go down the trachea. _So no again, then._

The two blokes dragging him hadn't even bothered to turn around to check on him when he'd started coughing. So…not friendly, perhaps. What, had they kidnapped him or something? Oddly enough, he didn't feel panicked. Despite his father's constant appearances in the newspapers, Tony hadn't been featured in any news article so far – Howard had done a good job to keep his family members out of the limelight, to mitigate possible threats like harassment and kidnapping (well, obviously it didn't work since he was currently in hostile territory.)

Perhaps these goons had no idea that he was Tony Stark. Perhaps they'd kidnapped him, some random guy on the streets of New York, for…oh, heck, he didn't know. His brain couldn't even conjure up coherent thoughts right now – _oh, shit._

The fog. Lots of fog. The weird stone thingy, on display at the museum. Ribbing Rhodey and Phil, being threatened with Pepper's stilettos. Reading the description engraved on the slab, being able to comprehend the weird writing even though Rhodey did not. Being knocked out by the fog. The fog was the last thing he could remember, anyway, so he could safely conclude that it must have been some sort of chemical similar to chloroform (though it did not smell sweet in the slightest) to knock him out for so long. Ah, yes, there was also a vague memory tucked away in his mind, something about him fumbling for his phone and managing to call Rhodey.

_Phone._

Clumsy fingers danced around his pockets, feeling for the telltale bulge that would be his Starkphone – though his efforts were fruitless. Those two goons must have frisked him and found his phone. Hopefully, like any other pair of guards in the movies he always watched, they would be buffoons and he would be able to trick them and escape.

Squinting at their backs, he managed to make out the wiry, slim frame of a girl on his right. Her leather suit clung to her body, a perfect fit for her size, and auburn curls – they looked more brownish under the dim light – bobbed slightly whenever she moved. Clearly fit, because she maintained a surprisingly bruising grip on Tony's ankle and he could see half of a holster on the right thigh. An assassin of some sort, then. And her companion. A guy, dressed in a suit made of the same type of leather, though probably of a different design, whole body well-padded in muscle. A collapsible bow slung over his shoulder – _nice, _Tony had handled a few before in his father's archery range, although this guy's bow didn't look anywhere near as good as the ones he owned. Both his captors were about his age, though, judging from their heights and stature. Not even at their prime teenage years yet and they were already involved in delinquent acts like kidnapping? Tony rolled his eyes. He could talk to them, convince them to release him. How hard could it be?

They halted at the same time, the jerk seizing Tony's attention, and in a single, coordinated move, both lugs had thrown him forward with only one hand each, Tony crashing to the floor in a manner most ungracious. The impact to his head was hard enough to potentially concuss – and he groaned softly, shifting his hands and moving to his knees to try and regain his bearings.

Finally mustering the energy to move his body so that he was sitting up and facing his captors, palms on the floor and his weight rested through his hands to maintain his upright position, he gave them the once-over. The girl was Russian, huh, and attractive, too, in the terrifying sort of way. Under the brighter light of the well-lit cell that he'd just been thrown into, he could see now that her curls were not just auburn, they were the exact same colour of the leaves in autumn. Her mouth was set in a grim line, lipstick carefully applied to her lips, deep green eyes staring back at his, as if she was staring into his very soul. And her friend, a handsome golden-haired boy with calmer sea-green pupils. More than likely American.

"Wanna tell me what I'm doing here?" It was supposed to be a nonchalant tone, but his voice was an octave higher than it usually was. If these guys were trained, and they probably were, despite their youth (Tony had learned not to misjudge people no matter how young or old they were) then he'd probably given away the fact that he was feeling slightly worried about the whole situation.

The girl continued glaring at him for another five seconds before averting her eyes and stalking off, her stilettos clacking each time they struck the marble tiling. (They were at least three inches higher than any of Pepper's heels.) Her companion shot him an apologetic glance before trailing behind her, closing the maroon door behind him. Tony heard the metallic clicks of the automatic locks engaging.

No, these two were definitely _not _the masterminds behind his kidnapping. They were henchmen, of a sort. Tasked to bring him from the museum to this cell…uh, room. He hadn't even come close to meeting his true captor yet.

Sighing softly, he tilted his head to each side, hearing the satisfying cracks of gas bubbles popping before attempting to stand up to examine his new surroundings. A room, probably about twenty metres long and fifteen metres wide, enclosing him within with four tall walls, each adorned with at least two framed portraits as well as a birch bookshelf across each length. The wall opposite him had a grand fireplace built in (exactly like the one at home, Tony was beginning to think his captors must be some sort of secret architects) and a large, comfy-looking cushioned sofa. And in the middle of the room, a long mahogany table that could easily seat Tony's whole family, extended and immediate. Right beside his door was a four-poster bed, with at least fifteen monogrammed silk cushions, and a stuffed polar bear tucked into the sheets.

His captors had style, he'd give them that. This room was bigger than Tony's bedroom, and almost as large as his lab.

Speaking of his lab, the best part of the room was built into one of the surrounding walls. A large alcove had been installed, providing him with a small white marble lab bench, a wooden lab stool, and there were three shelves holding every single tool Tony had ever held in his hands within his short fourteen years of existence. Wielding torch. Wrench. Fifteen different types of screwdrivers. A whole box full of screws. Chainsaw. A fire extinguisher. Some pieces of scrap metal littered here and there. And under the bench, two boxes filled with metal parts.

This wasn't captivity, this was heaven.

Crossing over to one of the bookshelves, Tony noted the titles displayed. Perhaps this would give him an indication of what his captor actually liked. _Making deductions now, all those hours of watching Sherlock on BBC haven't gone to waste then, Stark. _There were a myriad of genres on the wooden shelves, and they had to have been read often, seeing as there wasn't a speck of dust on the books. _Star Wars, Alice in Wonderland, _the whole series of the _Encyclopedia Britannica, World of Warcraft, Journey to the Centre of the Earth, Mechanics for Dummies._

Okay, he was not going to be able to deduce anything from _that._

"Someone who cares a great deal about comfort." Yes, that was it. No kidnapper who wanted to ransom a child would bother so much about the details of the prison cell holding the victim. Whoever this was wanted Tony to do something for him. His main talents were in mechanics – building and calibrating stuff – so perhaps whoever this was wanted him to build something for them.

What he could do now was wait. He would wait till whoever he was that captured him showed up, and then he would demand to head home, otherwise Howard would get angry, and then he would be out of here in no time. Yes, that would be it. For the moment, though, he could do nothing else but sit himself down on the sofa and try not to doze off.

* * *

"We did as you requested," the girl with the auburn curls stated bluntly, folding her arms and fixing her signature glare on the man seated before her, grinning smugly. "Delivered him all the way from the museum to the headquarters, with no witnesses. Our part of the deal is done – so we want what we've bargained for, now."

She had to clench her fists, her nails digging into her pale skin, to prevent herself from ripping out the man's throat in anger and frustration. This guy, who'd had her in his service for eleven years as an assassin, someone trained to do dirty jobs. Even though he was dressed immaculately, complete with a designer black suit and tie, gold watch on left wrist, manicured nails and styled hair, she would always think of him as lower than the scum of the earth.

This man, who she would kill on sight if she _could. _This man, the only person that she could not slaughter, unlike millions of others that she had before.

She could see Clint beside her in her peripheral vision, his back straight and his left arm at his side, hand also balled into a fist. His right arm was resting on his bow, a comforting weight slung across his shoulder, as if to serve as a reminder that he could always take it off and shoot this man in the face with it. He couldn't, of course, but both of them could always enjoy imagining what it would be like to kill the idiot in front of them.

The man in front of them was dangerous, of course, far more dangerous than both of them combined – not because of his ability to fight. No, she could easily beat him in a hand wrestling match in a heartbeat. He was dangerous because of the organization behind him. Because of the organization that both of them had been _forced _to be a part of. Honestly, she would rather shoot herself in the foot and jump off into the Pacific rather than work for him, but she had no choice.

Neither of them had a choice, not when lives of people they loved were at stake.

"No witnesses?" The man – no, the _scum – _steepled his fingers, settling back into his comfortable chair, raising an eyebrow. "Are you absolutely certain, Miss Romanoff?"

"I am. I covered our tracks myself. Uphold your end of the deal, Obadiah." The man remained perfectly unmoved by her glare – and she had made full-grown men cry before just by glaring at them. Of course, he had nothing to fear. She would not dare put even a toe out of line, not when he held precious lives at stake.

"If I recall," he smirked, "our deal was that I would promise to try a friendly approach with our latest addition, as well as allow both of you brief contact with your families, only _if _nobody ever noticed that the boy was kidnapped."

"We know what we promised," Clint growled beside her. "No witnesses. There were none."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that." Obadiah reached into Clint's suit pocket, extracting the Starkphone that had been found on their prisoner, and plugging a spherical device into the charging port to allow them to bypass the fourteen numbered password that the boy had set on the phone. "Sure, nobody _saw _you. That doesn't mean nobody knows that something's up." When the light on the sphere had flickered from red to green, Obadiah unplugged it, tossing the phone to Clint, who caught it expertly with one hand. "Why don't you check the call history?"

Clint frowned, hesitating for a moment before selecting the call app. The most recent outgoing call was to a 'James Rhodes', timed at five-thirty three. A green icon near the name told the archer that the call had been received.

"I watched the tapes myself, Mister Barton. You only began to administer the gas at five-twenty nine. The prisoner realized that something was wrong only at five-thirty. He took out his phone, fumbled for a bit, before he gathered his bearings and called his friend. His friend picked up. This James Rhodes knows that something is wrong. He could have called the police by now, Miss Romanoff, Mister Barton. The police could be scouring the museum as we speak."

"But?" Natasha knew there was something else.

"We got lucky. The prisoner got knocked unconscious by our special substance before he could get a word out. This James Rhodes believes that the call was just due to bad connection. I had the techies send a fake text to him, to make sure he wouldn't get suspicious for another twenty-four hours, at least."

"Then no harm has been done," Clint snapped, "and we'll be more careful next time. Now, our end of the bargain, please."

"I'm afraid not," Obadiah took the phone from him, throwing it into a drawer and closing it, turning the lock. "You have not fulfilled the agreement. I cannot allow you contact with your families. I will, however, take up your suggestion on using different tactics with our latest addition, though if that fails, I shall send him straight to the interrogation department. If he refuses to spill anything, though, one of you will be sent to talk to him and give him his choices. If he chooses the chemical labs, then the chemical labs it shall be. You know the usual protocol for newcomers. We've had four of them already."

"You disgust me," Natasha breathed, nostrils flaring and mouth set in a feral snarl.

"Tell me something I do not already know," Obadiah leaned forward, still smirking, far enough for Natasha to catch a whiff of his expensive cologne. "It would do you a world of good to remember your place, Miss Romanoff, Mister Barton. I can and will execute my threats if the two of you dare try anything."

Sensing that he had nothing more to say, and knowing that if the both of them stayed any longer in the same room as Obadiah they might say something that they would regret sooner or later, Clint herded Natasha out, keeping a firm grip on her wrist and elbow. He had enough experience with Angry Natasha to know that if anyone was in the same room as her when she was having her bouts of anger – except for himself, of course – there was a high possibility that nobody would leave the room without at least fifteen broken bones and five compound fractures.

"Hey, hey," he murmured to her, once they were out of Obadiah's hearing range, safely nestled in the air vents – the only place where there were no cameras or bugs in the whole headquarters. "Calm down, Nat."

"I have fifty different types of knives with his name engraved on the handles," Natasha snarled. "He's taken our childhood away from us and now he denies us the right to see our families."

"I know," Clint's tone was hushed. "I know. But at least it's not a complete failure. He did agree to try new tactics with this new guy. Hopefully more humane tactics that he used previously, with the other four guys."

"That's it," Natasha snapped. "Don't you see? He's been after something. A weapon of some sort, most likely. He's kidnapped four kids just to find out the location of this secret weapon. He's _tortured _four kids just to find out the location of this weapon. And now he's got a fifth kid. Whatever this weapon is, it has to be really powerful if none of the kids he's tortured so far is willing to tell him where it is. He's keeping us in the dark about all of this because he knows we'd never agree to it, and that we would do anything and everything to stop him even though we know that he could eliminate every single one of our family members."

Clint frowned. "You're certain."

"I know I'm right. All the kids he's had us kidnap for the past year have all been kidnapped in the same museum, in the exact same hall, and all of them have been looking at the exact same artifact. If we're going to find out what it really is that he's after, we're going to have to visit this museum and take a look for ourselves."

* * *

Blinking slowly, blearily, Tony groaned softly, waving his arm in a pathetic attempt to bat at the hand placed on his shoulder – a gesture that demanded him to wake up. He must've slept so late Rhodey had personally come to wake him up himself. Not that Rhodey could ever get him to wake up, of course. Rhodey had tried, once. He had gotten kicked off the bed and towards the door and had nearly tumbled down four flights of stairs in the rotunda had he not grabbed the banister in time.

And then it came back to him – this was not his house, and the hand on his shoulder did not belong to Rhodey, and there had been these kids dragging him down a hallway and throwing him into a room that looked like it belonged to someone in the royal family in Britain – well, except for the small lab built into the alcove. And something about books, of course. The only book title he could remember was _Star Wars – Death Troopers, _but hey, there had been books.

Now fully awake, Tony sat up immediately, alert of the presence of another in the same room as he. A man sat beside him – not the blond-haired teen he'd seen earlier, in fact much older – slightly overweight, but damn well-dressed in a tailored designer suit, pants and tie, hanky halfway tucked into a vest pocket, a pen that must have cost more than his whole outfit clipped to his shirt. A businessman of some sort, Tony supposed. Maybe he knew that Tony was Howard's son and wanted him to reveal Stark Industries' secrets. Well, he wasn't going to be successful with that. Tony wasn't just going to blab about his father's billion-dollar plans and gadgets-in-development to some weirdo in a suit. He wasn't like other rich brats – he wouldn't spill anything to anybody even if he was beaten to within an inch of his life.

The man _did _look familiar, though.

"Good morning," said the man, his strong cologne making Tony want to retch. What was he doing, trying to wrangle answers out of Tony using death-by-perfume? If that was his ulterior motive, he was succeeding. Tony could withstand being hit physically, but his nose was especially sensitive, and he really needed to sneeze, _right now. _Oh, god, did this guy even know how to use cologne? He was supposed to spray just a little on himself, not bathe in it.

"What do you want from me?" Tony asked bluntly, trying very hard _not _to think about the smell, one hand reaching behind his back where this man couldn't see and curling his fingers into the soft material of the cushions. He was starting to get a little worried about the whole situation. He'd never been kidnapped before – and even though Howard had done his best to keep Tony out of the way of the public eye, his father had still thought it fit to give him a briefing about what to do should he ever get kidnapped.

Pity he was daydreaming throughout that lecture.

"I was just about to get to that, actually," the man stood up, perambulating away from the sofa and toward the fireplace, back facing Tony, watching the flames dance eagerly, consuming the logs. Someone must have come in and lit it while Tony was sleeping like a pig on the sofa. "You have a gift, my lad. A gift I need."

"Nobody's given me presents since last Christmas, if that's what you're getting at," Tony mouthed off. He definitely wasn't going to make this easy. _Don't tell him anything. _"I don't even know you."

The man paused, glancing at the poker leaning upright against the wall, just beside the fireplace, almost wistful, as if he was briefly contemplating whether or not he should just knock Tony out with it. "Stane," he said at last, and Tony frowned. Yes, that was indeed _very _familiar. "You can call me Stane."

"Tony," he said automatically. Ah, what did it matter? As long as he didn't know his full name, he wasn't in that much trouble.

"Well, _Tony,_" Stane grinned condescendingly. "As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, you have a gift that I need. One of the only few in this world who have this special ability, as a matter of fact."

Tony kept silent, willing him to continue.

"Remember the slab at the museum?"

_Oh, fuck it. _The weird codes engraved on the stone, something about an ultimate weapon capable of mass destruction called the Aether. He had been wondering whether or not to actually take it seriously, but if someone had kidnapped him because of it? It was definitely real. Tony squeezed the cushions. Nope, he was definitely not in a dream. This was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. Yesterday, he would have gladly scoffed at the idea of something like magic. Today, though? He was starting to have his doubts.

"I have no idea what you –"

"Please, Tony. Don't take me for an idiot." Stane glanced at one of the numerous wall portraits, moving to examine it. "I watched the tapes myself. You stood in front of the exhibit for nearly twenty minutes. Obviously, that would mean that you can actually understand the code chiseled into the stone. Any old museum guest wouldn't even cast a glance at it."

_We have another Sherlock fan here, it seems. _"And you can't read the glyphs?"

"No, I can't," Stane admitted with little hesitance, clasping his hands together behind his back. "I need you to do it for me. I wouldn't have brought you all the way here otherwise. We're nearly two hundred meters underground, you know."

"So what makes you think I'm just going to do it for you?" Tony crossed his arms, leaning back into the sofa. "You did just knock me out and kidnap me, and two of your goons just dragged me down the hallway like I was a garbage bag to be taken out."

"I'll tell you what happens when I don't get what I want."

"Ooh, threats now, is it? Go on, I actually wanna hear this." _What was it again? The warning on the stone thingy? People who want the Aether must want it for all the wrong reasons – something 'bout greed and evil and all that jazz. _Clearly, whoever had written that code thousands of years ago had intended to warn those who could understand it, to tell them not to reveal anything about it – it had to be so dangerous it was capable of causing the deaths of millions.

_Yesterday, I was having a discussion with JARVIS about making strawberry jam. Today, I'm involved in a potential threat to the world. Fuck my life._

Stane chuckled. "I'll introduce you to my interrogation team. They're extremely efficient, if I do have to say so myself. They use tools, too, like you, since you're a mechanic of some sort, aren't you? Before you ask, I looked through the messages in the phone my men found on you, and managed to gather quite a bit of info on your hobbies. Apparently you don't eat often, don't sleep often, and spend most of your time working on building a robot called Butterfingers."

Tony didn't say anything.

"Your hobbies were all I could get, though. You're pretty careful. If you had anything about your family on your phone, I would have threatened to have them shot dead by now if you didn't tell me what I wanted to know."

"Newsflash," Tony snapped, "my family's not all that precious to me." It was true. His dad had started to be an asshole when Tony turned twelve, and his mother never had any time for him.

"Nevertheless," Stane continued, as if he hadn't heard Tony at all. "Like I was saying, tools. A lot different than your inventor's tools, though. Tools of torture. I'm sure you wouldn't want to experience that." A pause, and when no response came from Tony, he continued. "And even _if _you still refuse to tell us what secrets the stone holds, then we'll send you to the chemical labs."

"How terrifying," Tony deadpanned.

"It's not something you'd ever want to go through," Stane affirmed. "Now – you have your choices. Either you tell me everything I want to know, and I'll let you go, or I send you to my interrogation team."

_I'd rather not stay alive to see the complete destruction if I ever did tell you where the Aether is, _Tony thought, and shook his head once. "It's a hard decision, Stane, but I think I'll take the second one."

Almost immediately after the words left his mouth, four strong hands clamped down on him, two per arm, in crushing vice-grips. Tony grunted, looking up, and there, another two burly men dressed in identical silk suits. Neither of them were the two teens he'd seen earlier, though – though he was still curious as to why Stane would ever employ teenagers to help him in his dirty work – and they were a lot less intimidating than the red-haired Russian girl he'd seen. That was a tiny consolation, if anything.

"Your wish is my command," Stane nodded, waving a dismissive hand to the two men. Tony felt a handkerchief covering his nose, and the sweet smell of chloroform hit him almost immediately before he was out cold again.

Just his luck.

* * *

**A/N: **So Clint and Natasha are both working for Stane, if any of you are confused. (I'll develop more on the whys and hows later.) In the next chapter, Tony whump! :D Yay, the part we've all been waiting for. Oh, yes, and Tony also meets Steve in the next chapter. Sorry if any of them seem a little OOC (okay fine, a lot OOC). Stony ftw! XD


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